


Hetalia Headcanon Prompts

by Kantegi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantegi/pseuds/Kantegi
Summary: Looking around on Tumblr one day, I found a bunch of Hetalia Headcanons. I decided I would write a one shot for my favorite ones. All of the Headcanons belong to their rightful owners and you can find them on the Tumblr blog APH headcanons.(Reupload from FF.net)





	1. Germany's Height

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hetalia Headcannon: When Prussia realized that Germany was taller than him, he went out and got drunk out of his mind.
> 
> Warnings: Alcohol Consumption. If you have a problem with becoming so drunk you're incoherent, please do not read this.
> 
> Characters: Prussia, Germany

Prussia didn't realize it before.

His younger brother was finally taller than him. And by a lot.

The first world war they had been in had changed his brother a lot. Germany often acted as if he could trust no body. He was more distant and didn't speak as often. He knew it was because of the Depression going on. It took a whole suit case of Deutsche Marks just to buy fresh baked bread to feed a family.

He had lost, leaving him in so much debt. He couldn't even stand to look at himself some days. The war that he had helped create. The war that he ended up losing after all of his bragging.

Today was the first day within months that Germany left his room. He was going to a meeting with his new boss, the new political leader of the Nazi party, Adolf Hitler. He had just been sworn in to office a week ago. Germany was to come to meet him immediately.

Prussia had noticed that the blonde's tie was untidy, something that showed Germany was more than just stressed. He was starting to forget things too.

To show that someone cared for him, Prussia walked over and grabbed Germany's red tie into his hand, fixing it so it was tied correctly and straight. Prussia looked up to his face, and suddenly it hit him.

His little brother was no longer just his little brother. His little brother was older, taller than him finally. He stepped back, alarmed, leaving Germany to shake his head and make way towards the door. When he left, he left Prussia in a residing silence.

Germany. He had taken care of him his whole life. He had raised him since Germania dissolved when Prussia took control over the entire empire, forming his own Kingdom and world power. He wanted to give Germany the best life he possibly could. Even if it meant sacrifice. One of those being giving up his country for him, which Germany declined and made Prussia the east of. The new leader didn't accept this, and so he didn't invite Prussia to any of the meetings.

The sense of alarment from earlier could not leave him. It was on his mind. His little boy was grown up. He didn't need his older brother anymore.

That night, Prussia had gone alone to a famous bar in Berlin. He ordered the strongest beer he could think of, Schorchsbock. It was nearly 749 Deutsche Marks a bottle. Prussia didn't care what it took. He didn't want to remember a thing in the morning.

This much alcohol could have killed somebody, but Prussia was not a mortal. It did nothing more than give him a sense of absolute numbness.

He had two bottles. And after two bottles, he couldn't even sit up properly. He had fallen off the bar stool and had to be moved to a booth, the bar contacting his brother to come and get him. When Germany arrived, the first thing Prussia mustered was, "You've grown so much, West. You're starting to not need me anymore."

When they got home, Germany locked himself in his room and cried. He was right. He didn't need Prussia anymore. But he couldn't imagine life without his brother.


	2. Italy's Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon: The real reason Germany pushes Italy so much during training is just in case something happens to Italy and Germany can't reach him.
> 
> Warnings: Possible triggers. Read at your own risk. This one is full of sadness.

Germany couldn't even process this guilt, this horrible feeling in his stomach. He wanted to double over and empty his stomach on the ground. Empty the lunch that he had made and enjoyed with his best friend, the country of Italy.

The blonde nation never cried, but now he was forced to. The sight before him was grotesque, depressing, enough to make any regular mortal go insane. Germany thought that he had seen it enough before that he didn't have to feel like this every time. But there in the middle of the shinning red field of dead men he did not know the name of, there lay one dead corpse that moved Germany greatly.

Italy Veneziano.

Germany had been late showing up for the battle. It was hard to move his troops across the dessert in order to get to Italy's. The had planned to take some of the countries down in Africa as part of the war. It was rumored that the Allies were advancing, but he wasn't sure.

Germany didn't have a strong Navy, which is how he had to transport his military power all the way to Africa. He didn't have much of an ocean to practice with, to keep all of his ships there.

Leaving the others behind him, he ran. He ran to the center of the field where his best friend lay with blood splattered all around him. He was dead Germany knew it.

A country with two halves would live forever until they were mortally wounded in battle. The other half would become the whole country. Romano would become all of Italy, and if Germany died, Prussia would become the full Reich of Germany.

He dropped to his knees, his breath becoming ragged and shallow. Tears overflowed from his eyes as he tried to hold back a sob.

He pushed Italy so hard to prevent this. To prevent losing a war. To present any of this! If only he had pushed harder, harder than he did before. Italy could have still been alive. He could have still been with him, laughing, smiling, enjoying life. But now he was gone.

Germany picked him up into his arms, holding him close to his chest. He was cold, and his eyes were marbled with death. He had seen so many people die, but he wasn't prepared for Italy's. He didn't deserve to go. Not like this. Not like this at all...

He wished he had been there for him. Maybe he would still be alive if Germany himself trained more.

He would always blame himself for Italy's death. It was his job to train the older country, and yet he didn't do it hard enough. He didn't push him to his very limit. He was over dramatic with his condition, so Germany often let him stop early. He didn't want to push him so hard he lost a friend. But he would have rather lost a friend than have his friend lose his life.


	3. Otto Beilschmidt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon: HRE's human name is Otto Beilschmidt.
> 
> Warnings: You might die of fluffiness overload.

The grass was such an astonishing green. He didn't know what to call the color until Italy had told him.

"Ve~ A lot of artists call it a medium green. I think it's borderline medium green, but it's a mixture of Lime and Medium, so I like to call it Median Lime green. It's the middle of the two," Italy told him, continuing to paint on the canvas in front of him. lt was a beautiful field full of imaginary Amaryllis. In some places there were some of Holy Rome's favorite flowers. The Centaureas. They were a pretty color.

"What color would you say my flowers are?" he asked, intrigued with this concept of color's having more specific names.

"Mmm...I would say...Cornflower," he responded, adding more detail to the painting. Two silhouettes in the background, dancing with the sway of the flowers.

"Hey, that's us," Holy Rome said, his eyes full of affection for the paintings. "Italy, it's..."

"Beautiful?" he asked, giving Holy Rome a smile. "I thought you would like it. Centaureas are your favorite flowers!"

Holy Rome felt his face flushed up, blue eyes sparkling with affection for his Italian lover. "Ja, they are. Thank you so much Italy." He wraped his arms around Italy's neck, pulling the other in for a nervous hug. Italy accepted, chuckling at the gesture.

"Ve~" Italy spoke, his face a gentle pink. "Holy Rome? I have a question I've been meaning to ask you," he said, pulling away from the hug.

"Yes Italy, ask away. I'll answer it no matter what," he said, staring into his brown-eyed friend's beautiful chocolate eyes.

"Well, Mister Austria was talking to me about how we all have human names. Mister Austria is Roderich, Mrs. Hungary is Eliziveta, and I'm Feliciano. What is your name, then?"

Holy Rome stood there, quiet, as he thought. He had never paid much attention to it before. From the moment he was founded they knew his nation name. There was no real reason for a human name.

His brother had the name Gilbert Beilschmidt. He could at least keep the last name. However, he needed a unique German name. Some crossed his mind, but none fit. Choosing a name was hard. There was Dieder. It was a character from a book he read about an awesome knight who saves people. The knight was unique because he had purple eyes.

Another option was Ludwig, but he wasn't sure. It seemed common. But finally, he found the one that fit just right.

"It's...Otto. Otto Beilschmidt, personification of the Holy Roman Empire." He saw Italy's face light up into a smile.

"Ve~ When it's only us, we should call each other our human names!" he said, earning a soft smile from Otto.

"Alright then, Feli," Otto replied, grabbing Feliciano's hand into his own. "You shall be Feliciano, and I shall be Otto."

And they sealed their agreement with a kiss.


	4. Christmas Football

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon: Every Christmas since 1914, England and Germany get together to play football.
> 
> Warning: None. Just enjoy the crappy crack shipping fiction.

"Just like last year, ol' chap," England huffed, his shoulders slumped over as he waited on the other side of the field, awaiting the arrival of his opponent. "Not bad. Not bad at all." He moved quickly to the side, blocking the other's power kick with his ankle. It bounced up straight into the air and over his head. He turned to look up at it, preparing to bounce it off his knee into the air and take off down the field.

It had become a tradition for the two of them every year. Ever since their Christmas together in World War I.

England and Germany weren't friends, far from it, but they had some kind of agreement between each other that every year on Christmas they would get together and play soccer, no matter the weather. And it wasn't even a spoken agreement. It just happened. Just them, and no one else. England and Germany. No Italy, no America.

It was a tradition that started during World War I. There was a battle going on between the two countries, only to have England invite the idea of a peace treaty between the two countries just for Christmas. Their soldiers spent the day laughing and enjoying time together as if nothing ever happened before and nothing would happen after. The two personifications played football in no mans land, for once, enjoying the feeling of each other's company.

During the rest of the battle, there was a real hesitance, but in the end, England came victorious. As another friendly gesture, the two countries decided to bury their dead in the same ceremony.

The next Christmas after WWI was over, England had showed up at Germany's door as he sat alone without his brother, who had spent the holiday with his two obnoxious friends, and Italy with Romano, drinking, trying to find a way to pass the time. He was surprised when England asked if he wanted to play football with him, just as they did in 1914, and Germany of course oblidged.

They played until Italy came over for dinner. He had invited Romano, and Spain, France, and Prussia came as well. England was going to leave that time, but Germany smiled and invited him to stay. "We can finish our game our dinner. Besides, it would be rude to kick a guest out of my house."

The next year it was Germany who initiated it. He had traveled to England's place, who was spending it with America and France, and the two played the game. This time, however, America played with England on a team and France with Germany. Germany and France lost, but only because France insisted on being the goalie. He screamed every time the ball looked as if it was going to near him.

So here they were now, reliving the tradition as England hurried down the field towards Germany, who was guarding, waiting for the other to get close. It was one more score and England would win.

There had been a hundred games so far. Germany had one most of them, but England was determined this time he would win. When claiming this, Germany laughed, but gave him a sympathetic pat. "Maybe this year, England."

When Germany was about to steal the ball right from under England, the British gentleman kicked the ball in between the German's legs, sliding right under him and catching Germany off guard. Quickly England got back up to his feet and continued down the field, ending up scoring the winning goal.

Germany ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to laugh at how the older country had one. It was funny, indeed, how he slid right under his legs!

"See," England panted, catching back up to him, "I...told you I could beat you."

Germany laughed again, placing his hand on his shoulder. "I'm not even sure if that's legal."

"Legal or not, I still beat you. Germany 67, England 23!" he exclaimed, exited that he beat the German. It had been three years since he had, but he got to this year.

The two sat down in the snow, panting and tired, a grin on their faces.

"Merry Christmas, you kraut."

"Frohe Weihnatchen, Du Betrüger."

England laughed, pulling his football friend into an awkward hug.

"Merry Christmas, you cheater."


	5. Burns That Will Never Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon: On June 23, 2006, Sealand caught fire. He has burns on his back from it, but no one but England knows it's there.
> 
> Warnings: None, really. It is sad to an extent, though.
> 
> Yes, I know that no one died in the fire of Sealand, but for the drama of this story, let's say somebody did.

It was a rarity that Sealand ever had a desire to hang out with England after all the country had put him through. All of the pain and resentment the former territory had endured daily when under his rule as a Naval base. He was not a weapon.

Sealand still remembers when he was found. England was sure he was going to end up representing a united Great Britain. That he was going to be the new United Kingdom, including both Irelands, Scotland, Wales, and himself. That their feuds would be over as a new empire rose from the war-torn colonies. In the end, it was shown that Sealand was instead of his recent colony.

But he had asked permission from England to go swimming at the latter's mansion, He had a large pool that Sealand used to love swimming in, and he decided that it was well enough time to forgive England for his crime against him.

However, barely anybody knew of the damage Sealand had just went though.

Sealand could still vividly remember the scream of the people in his country. They were small, so everybody knew each other like family. They were devastated to see what happened.

The heat was immense and powerful. Just having Sealand stand near it was enough to make him want to jump into the water, which tempted some of the other civilians. He hated fire. It was dangerous and out of control.

The others evacuated to the far side of the mobile country, hoping somebody would come soon to their aid. Prince James had already called for back up from the British. They were sending in a helicopter to diminish the flames.

The fire started with a faulty electrical wire. It caught smoke, and soon everything around it set fire, including the living quarters.

There were only three children in Sealand. The oldest was about to become a man, King Michael's son James. The other one was a young boy of age thirteen, the other, the youngest, a girl of age nine.

She often played with Sealand. They had a lot in common, and someday he promised to bring her to a world meeting with him. She could see how it was to be a country, and maybe one day she too could become a territory and live beside him forever. He actually liked the girl as more than a friend. It was a childish crush, yes, but it was still as real as Sealand could imagine.

She was asleep when the fire started, and with no fire alarms, she was left in a burning room. When Sealand realized she was missing, he ran after her, looking frantically for her. When he got to her room, it was up in flames, about to collapse.

The doorway was already in flames, and on the other side, he could hear the sizzle of burning skin. The smell of burning skin. Sealand thought he was going to be sick. He dropped to his knees in the doorway, sobbing hysterically, hoping that she would be okay. He couldn't be a hero like America, his brother. He wanted to, but it was useless. He knew she was gone.

A piece of burning metal, hot and sizzling, dropped on to his back. Sealand screamed out, the metal burning off pieces of his flesh. He swore that he would have metal bonded to his back by the time he was saved. His own flesh burned as well, causing Sealand to throw up right before him. He didn't have the words to explain the pain. He had never had pain before, and this threw him backwards. He didn't like pain. He never wanted to feel it again.

Help arrived and they recovered the burning body of his friend. Her name was Sealia. Her father took part of her name from the country itself.

They tended to Sealand's burns, the metal not being hot enough to be able to bind against his skin. But it left scars so bad the skin would never come back completely.

The blackened spots were faded, but if you looked, they were there.

When Sealand came over to swim, he was wearing only his swim shorts, and immediately England could see his burns.

He asked about them, and when Sealand began to answer, he broke down crying.

That was the first time in years he let England see him cry.


End file.
